A Moment Too Late
by Sargent Snarky
Summary: AU from 1.22 on: "The world stood still and silent for one long second. Then John screamed, his jaw stretching wide to emit the thick black smoke that was a demon. Sam jumped, squeezing the trigger."
1. Chapter 1

**A Moment Too Late**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural. Moreover, everything up to the last paragraph in this chapter is nothing more than a novelization of material from the episode. However, I promise that after this chapter, everything will be entirely my own. Except for what belongs to Kripke & co., of course.

**A/N:** This is AU from the last episode of Season1 onward, and this first chapter is primarily a novelization of part of that episode, leading up to where I diverge from the canon plot. Further notes will be located at the end of this chapter. Also… title is subject to change.

_This story is dedicated to Victorian Taxi, for without her I would never have watched Supernatural and this story certainly wouldn't exist.

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_

Chapter 1

Sam came back into the room and stopped, left eye widening at the sight before him. Dean stood planted, unhappy, pointing the Colt at their father. Sam's gaze darted from one to the other in confusion.

"Dean, what the hell is going on?"

John answered for him, giving his older son a level stare. "Your brother's lost his mind."

"He's not Dad," growled Dean.

"What?!"

"I think he's possessed. I think he's been possessed since we rescued him."

"Don't listen to him, Sammy!"

"Dean, how do you know?"

"He – he's _different_."

"You know, we don't have time for this," interjected John. "Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you gotta trust me."

Conflicted, Sam stared from his father to his brother and back again, worried and unsure. He studied Dean's grieved expression, meeting his brother's eyes for a moment, and John's impatient, earnest one, as if he did not believe this was happening.

"Sam," said his father.

Sam took a deep breath. And then, following his instincts, he said, "No." He shook his head, "No," and he moved to stand beside his brother.

John stared at them for a moment, aghast and sad. "Fine. You both so sure… go ahead. Kill me."

Dean held the gun; he stared at his father; his arm trembled, but he did not fire, and as John bowed his head, Dean found his resolve crumbling. This was his _father_, for chrissake! This was the man he had looked up to his whole life! He couldn't kill his father any more than he could have killed his mother, were she still alive – or Sam. His love ran too deep.

And that was his mistake.

"I thought so."

John lifted his head, smirking, his eyes gleaming yellow.

And the end began.

Sam cried out as he found himself flung against the wall and pinned, and Dean grunted, struggling and failing to maintain a hold of the Colt, as he too went flying through the air only to be slammed against the ancient planks of the cabin and trapped. Both brothers strained their muscles, seeking to escape the force that held them, but to no avail. And still smirking, the yellow-eyed demon in their father's body strode forward and picked up the precious gun.

"What a pain in the ass this thing's been."

Sam glowered at him. "It's you, isn't it." John grinned, and Sam went on. "We've been looking for you for a long time."

"Well, you found me."

"But the holy water…"

"You think something like that works on something like me?"

Seething, Sam struggled all the harder. "I'm gonna kill you," he snarled.

"Oh." The yellow-eyed demon was all too amused. "That would be a neat trick. In fact… here." He set the Colt upon the table. "Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy."

And when Sam proved unable to do so, 'John' chuckled. "You know, this is fun. I could've killed you a hundred times today, but this… this is worth the wait." He looked at Dean. "Your dad – he's in here with me, trapped inside his own meat suit. He says 'hi,' by the way. He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood."

"Let him go," hissed Dean, "or I swear to God—"

"What? What are you and God gonna do? You see, as far as I'm concerned, this is justice." He moved closer, leaning close. "You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter."

Dean blinked. "Who? Meg?"

"The one in the alley… that was my boy. You understand?"

"You gotta be kidding me."

"What? You're the only one that can have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed your family?" The demon paused, a slow smile curving his lips. "Oh – that's right. I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don't make a right."

"You son of a bitch!"

Sam, silent hitherto in his struggles to force his psychic abilities to work, for once, interrupted: "I wanna know why. Why'd you do it?"

The demon turned to him. "You mean, why'd I kill Mommy and pretty little Jess?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I never told you this," said the demon to Dean, as he wandered back over to Sam, "but Sam was gonna ask her to marry him. Been shopping for rings and everything. You wanna know why? Because they got in my way."

"In the way of what?"

"My plans for you, Sammy. You… and all the children like you."

"Listen, you mind just getting this over with?" sighed Dean. "'Cause I really can't stand the monologuing."

'John' rounded on Dean. "Funny. But that's all part of your m.o., isn't it? Masks all that nasty pain. Masks the truth."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is… they don't need you. Not like you need them. Sam… he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."

Dean's lips twitched into a brief smirk. "Yeah, I bet you're real proud of your kids too, huh? Oh wait – I forgot. I wasted 'em."

The demon gazed at him for several long seconds; he bowed his head for a moment, and when he looked up, Dean let out a yelp of pain, writhing as much as he was capable, still trapped as he was.

"Dean! No!"

Sam renewed his struggles, fueled by fear and anger at the sight of blood leaking down Dean's chest from whatever the demon was doing. Dean clenched his jaw, doing his best to swallow his screams, while the demon just stood by and smiled.

"Dad. _Dad_," grunted Dean. "Don't you let him kill me!"

The onslaught did not abate.

"Dean!" cried Sam, again.

Agonized and swiftly-weakening from the pain and the blood loss, Dean looked tearfully into what should have been his father's eyes. "Dad… please," he whispered one last time before things became too blurry to properly focus, and he slumped against the force that held him.

"Urgh. Dean! No!" Sam had never been more afraid in his life than he was now, with Dean dying and he, powerless to prevent it.

And then a miracle happened. John was able to regain control of his body – only for a few seconds, but it was enough.

"Stop it," he whispered, eyes once again brown, and both Sam and Dean fell from their positions against the walls; unlike Dean, Sam landed on his feet.

The youngest Winchester wasted no time in grabbing the Colt from the table and lunging forward, aiming the gun straight at John Winchester's heart. The demon, once again in control, smiled.

"Kill me, you kill Daddy."

"I know."

And that was exactly why Sam abruptly changed aim and shot his father (and the demon) in the leg. After a brief spasm of surprise and pain crossed his features, the man collapsed, leg folding beneath him as he fell backwards, John once again regaining control, as the demon within him writhed in pain.

Sam rushed to Dean's side, his primary concern that his brother – the one person dearer to him than aught else, even their father – was alive and safe. He stared, doing his best to assess Dean's status as quickly as possible.

"Dean! Dean, hey… Oh God, you lost a lot of blood."

"Where's Dad?" asked Dean, his voice a whisper – and barely even that.

"He's right here. He's right here, Dean."

"Go check on him."

"Dean!"

"Go check on him."

Sam rose slowly, unwilling to forsake his brother's side. But after several seconds, he did as he was bid and approached John.

"Dad… Dad?"

John gasped. "Sammy!" he cried, panting, still struggling against the demon. "It's still inside me. I can feel it! Just shoot me. You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart, son!"

Without hesitation, Sam lifted the gun, aimed it and pulled back the hammer. He swallowed, and inside, he felt as though his heart – so painstakingly put back together this past year – would shatter anew.

"Do it now!" John shouted.

"Sam," growled Dean, horrified. "Don't you do it."

"You gotta hurry," insisted John. "I can't hold onto it much longer."

And Sam hesitated, torn between the two. His head – and hell, even part of his heart – was with his father. The demon had to be killed – now, while it was vulnerable. Now was the time to avenge their mother – and to avenge Jessica. Now was the time to end it all! And yet, this was his _father_. For all their fighting, for all the ways in which Sam and John had hurt each other, Sam still loved the man dearly. How could he commit patricide, even now? And with Dean, whose opinion mattered far more than John's ever had, insisting that he not, how could Sam even think about pulling that trigger?

"You shoot me, son. Shoot me! Son, I'm begging you: we can end this here and now."

Still, Sam did not shoot; his whole body trembled, and he felt his eyes burn with tears that wanted to fall.

"SAMMY!"

"Sam, no…"

"You do this! Sammy! Sam…"

The world stood still and silent for one long second. Then, John screamed, his jaw stretching wide to emit the thick black smoke that was a demon. Sam jumped, squeezing the trigger. There was a loud crack, and their father's screaming choked off. But the demon did not cease to emerge – if anything, the cloud flowed faster and was gone in the blink of an eye, and Sam knew with leaden certainty that he had failed.

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**A/N**: Chapter 2 is actually complete. It just awaits proof-reading, and you can expect it to be posted sometime next week. When exactly that happens, though, depends on when I get enough time to sit down and give it a good read through. Chapter 3 will be much slower in coming, however, for as of late, my mind has been entirely on other things and other writing projects. Rest assured, though, that this is a story I _do_ intend to finish. I imagine that either once season 4 is on DVD or when season 5 starts airing, I'll get back on a SPN kick. But of course, college leaves me with relatively little time for writing, so… eh… tl;dr: updates will be sporadic.

On the story itself: This idea spawned from conversations I've had with Victorian Taxi, and she has helped by giving me a lot of feedback concerning what I've written of this fic, because she's awesome like that. :) Nonetheless, further feedback is always welcome, so don't hesitate to offer criticism, ask questions, comment, etc.

And as for how AU it goes… well, you'll have to wait and see. But I doubt it'll be on the same track as the actual episodes – indeed, I plan to diverge quite a bit at first, but that's not to say it may not come back to the series' canon plot eventually.

Thanks for reading!

- Snarky


	2. Chapter 2

**A Moment Too Late**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural, its characters, its ideas or its situations, obviously.

**A/N:** My apologies for taking slightly longer than I said I would – this week got intensely busy, due to work and automobile related things. Other notes follow at the end.

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Chapter 2

John Winchester was dead.

Even ignoring the bullet hole in the left side of his chest, it was obvious. He was far too pale, and gravity held his eyelids open and kept his glassy eyes rolled back. Where before blood had emerged steadily from the wound in his leg, the flow had slowed to mere oozing with the cessation of the heartbeat. 1

Despite this obvious fact, however, one of his sons remained in denial.

"No! Dad – _Dad!_" Dean couldn't muster the strength to shout or to move to his father's side, but he rasped his words earnestly, and his eyes were wide; his fists clenched in the cloth of his shirt, where he'd been clutching at his bleeding chest.

Sam, meanwhile, remained frozen where he was, eyes wide and body trembling. His hands shook violently, and he suddenly found his fingers limp and clumsy; the Colt fell to the ground with a decisive _thunk_. Sam's knees soon followed as his strength gave way. His throat was dry, and he swallowed, unwilling to comprehend what had just happened – what he had just done. He only realized he was crying when he felt the hot droplets land on his hands. Shaking his head, he mouthed a single word – _Dad_ – but his vocal chords refused to work.

"_Sam, wha—!_" Dean's hiss broke off into a rattling cough; he struggled to control it, to sit up and to shout – but his efforts and anxiety only served to make his condition worse, and though he managed to raise himself off the floor by a few inches, he soon collapsed with an audible moan.

This seemed to at last snap Sam out of his daze. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing again as he forced himself to focus. Dad was… Dad was… Nothing could be done about Dad, now, but Dean – Dean was alive, and he needed help, needed it soon. Sam hurried to Dean's side – blinking rapidly, but certainly not because he wanted to burst into pathetic sobbing right here and now – and once again gave a quick visual assessment of Dean's injuries. They looked bad, so Sam attempted to loop his brother's arm over his shoulder to ease in transporting the older man to the Impala – Dean required far more medical help than Sam thought he could give. However, Dean would have none of this. He feebly shoved Sam away, glaring at the younger brother with all the betrayal and fury that his unfocused gaze could manage.

"No. You – Dad…"

Sam grit his teeth and forced Dean's compliance anyway, half carrying, half dragging Dean to the Impala, opening the side door and gently hoisting his brother inside. All the while, he could feel the seething anger emanating from Dean. Sam ignored it, for now, pulling the keys to the Impala out of Dean's pocket and shutting the passenger door. He hesitated, then, eyes darting back to the cabin in which his father… and the… the Colt was there, too, useless as it was, now. Dean needed medical attention soon, but to simply leave John there seemed… wrong. And yet… to return, to face what… what was there – Sam didn't think he could do that. He had to go, now – had to get out of here, had to take Dean and go.

He all but vaulted over the car to get to the driver's side, get in, start the car and take off.

As he sped down the dirt track, headed for the main road, Sam avoided looking at Dean – at least until Dean passed out; then Sam glanced at him constantly, praying that Dean would survive whatever the bastard demon had done to him. He had to – without Dean, there was nothing left.

0=0=0

Bobby was in the kitchen, eating lunch, when he was interrupted by a ringing. He paused, fork halfway from his plate to his mouth, looking up, over to the series of phones along the wall. The one ringing was his personal line, the one whose number he only gave to fellow hunters. Bobby sighed and set down his fork, pushing away from the table and going over. He picked up the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"B-bobby?"

The voice on the other end was quiet and hoarse, and it was shaking, but Bobby thought recognized it.

"Yeah," he said, again. "Who's this?"

"It's… Sam."

"What d'y'need? Didja get your Dad back?"

Silence. Bobby's frown deepened.

"...Sam? What happened?"

"… I-I need your help." It was barely a whisper. "W-we found D-dad, and we went to the cabin to lay low, but he… oh God… he was… the demon… the demon possessed him."

Bobby felt his insides chill at that thought. John… possessed. Nothing good could have followed that, and Bobby almost wanted to tell Sam to stop right there: he didn't want to hear anymore. But he simply swallowed, instead.

"He was gonna kill us – almost killed D-Dean," Sam went on. "But… Dad broke the demon's control, and I grabbed th-the Colt, and… I… I… sh-shot him… in the leg. And I… I tried to… but the… Dad's d… Dad's gone. The demon escaped before I could…"

On the other end, Bobby could hear Sam take a long, shuddering breath before going on. "I can't go back. I'm with Dean, at the hospital, and I can't go back. But Dad's there, and he… he can't just be… left."

"And you want me to go take care of things at the cabin."

Expectant silence came through on the other end, and Bobby sighed.

"… where is the cabin? And what hospital you boys at?"

0=0=0

Sam paced back and forth beside Dean's bed in the hospital. Though he was exhausted, he refused to let himself cease moving for even a moment, refused to close his eyes for longer than it took to blink, too. If he stopped moving, he started thinking, and if he closed his eyes, he _saw_ what he had done all over again – and neither was desirable. So he kept moving, determined both to keep from remembering and to keep from thinking. He knew that if he stopped for even a moment, he would collapse into a messy ball of grief and guilt, self-loathing and fear. There was just too much for him to deal with – too much he just couldn't handle.

Dean was unconscious, hooked up to all manner of machines keeping him alive, and so far – despite his poor condition – the man was stable. Yet, there remained a chance he would worsen and die, especially if infection set in. What if he died? Or worse, what if he never woke up but simply lingered, comatose?

And yet… what if he woke up? What would he say to Sam? Dean had told Sam not to shoot. Begged him. Sam had done it anyway – and maybe that wouldn't have been so bad, if the damn thing had worked, but it hadn't. Sam had shot too late. Yellow Eyes was still out there. Injured, yes, but alive and fully capable of coming after them – especially now, while they were vulnerable in a place so ill-protected against demons. Sam didn't think the nurses would take kindly to him drawing Devil's Traps on the ceiling or salting the window and door. They'd kick him out for sure, then, as one of the more cantankerous members of the staff had already threatened to do. It was only because Sam had looked so wretched when – three hours ago – they told him visiting hours were over for the day (and he'd been here since before they'd begun, for he'd brought his brother in late the night before) that they'd allowed him to stay. One nurse who'd had a sister of her own, once, gave him coffee and offered to get him a pillow and blankets. Sam had politely declined; he did not want to tempt sleep – never again.

It was a futile desire, wanting to never sleep again – he knew. Sam might have been able to keep it up for a few days, if he kept himself occupied, but he knew how stealthy sleep could be, sneaking up on him unawares and pouncing, dragging him under with claws made of nightmares. He might get some rest – an hour, maybe, if he were lucky. Then, he'd dream.

Sam always dreamed. Every night. He had as far back as he could remember, though he couldn't always recall the dreams themselves. But he'd long had a propensity for strange dreams, rarely seeing much cheerful or pleasant at night. And when something ate at him in waking, it tore ravenously at him in sleeping. Prophetic dreams were worse, though, pulling him from restful sleep with an incessant nagging he could not ignore; any time he tried, he thought of Jessica and knew better. He could never ignore such dreams again.

But as unpleasant as the visions were to endure, in some ways Sam preferred them to the straight up nightmares. The visions, at least, gave him a purpose – a direction. Sometimes, something could be done to try to resolve them, too. But nightmares? There was no resolving those, and there was no way to stop them. And nightmares served no purpose, save to rehash Sam's guilt and fears for his conscience's self-torment.

When he had been little, he had curled up next to Dean, taking comfort in the warm presence of the one he loved best, and hell, even in college, when he and Jessica had begun sleeping in the same bed, he had snuggled close to her to ward off the chill – not of the night, but of the dreams. But that had only ever done so much. Mostly, such things had only ever helped him fall back asleep after waking up in a cold sweat, relaxed him enough to slip once more into slumber. Neither of those options were available to him, now, and besides, he preferred to avoid the nightmares if at all possible to begin with.

Still, some part of Sam wanted nothing more than someplace soft to lay his head; he was so very tired. But, even if the potential dreams weren't enough to dissuade him, the idea of being asleep when Dean awoke was just as galling. Sam knew that Dean would be furious with him – probably hate him, maybe even disown him – when he woke up, and although Sam didn't relish being shouted at when Dean first awoke, he knew he deserved the verbal beat down, this time. More than deserved it. Some twisted part of him looked forward to it as a way to, perhaps, begin to make up for everything that had gone wrong.

More than anything, though, Sam wanted to be there when Dean woke up just to hear his brother's voice – to know that he was alive and Sam was not alone.

"Do you want some coffee, hon?"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden intrusion of a woman's voice into his thoughts. He spun about – heart pounding – to face the nurse, a comfortably proportioned, middle aged woman who smiled at him kindly. Running a hand through his hair as he fought to bring his pulse back under control, Sam flashed her a pathetic excuse for a smile and nodded.

"I'll go get you a cup, then. Sugar or cream?"

"Cream, please. Th-thank you."

"Don't mention it, sweetie."

She disappeared briefly then returned bearing a Styrofoam cup. Gesturing to the two chairs in the room, she handed him his coffee and then reached for Dean's chart.

"Sit down while you drink that, hon. Wouldn't want you to spill it."

Sam hesitated, but at the expectant, stern look the nurse fixed him with, he refrained from protesting and folded into one of the seats, leaning back as he sipped his drink. Satisfied, the nurse turned her full attention to Dean, checking his monitors, I.V. and dressings.

After a while, Sam broke the silence. "How is he doing?"

"I'd think you'd know better than I, since you've yet to leave his side," she replied, smiling faintly. "But he seems to be doing all right, considering his injuries."

Nodding, Sam turned his eyes to the floor. "When do you think he'll wake up?"

The nurse paused, tilting her head as she gave the question some thought. "Hmm… I don't know for certain. He lost a lot of blood, and he was under heavy anesthesia for the surgery, so it most likely won't be tonight. But any more than that, I wouldn't know."

Sam nodded and said nothing. The nurse made a final note on Dean's chart and replaced it in its holder; however, she didn't immediately leave, instead watching Sam, as he scooted his chair closer to Dean's bed. Biting her lip, the nurse paused for a moment before padding over to place a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Chin up, sweetie. I'm sure he'll recover. He's lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do – that'll be good for him when he wakes up. Patients who've got someone there to help them usually do better."

Although she beamed down at him, Sam did not look up at her, uttering only a noncommittal grunt in response and taking the final sip of his coffee before crushing the cup in his fist. What was there to say to that? The nurse lingered a few moments longer, but with no further response forthcoming, she sighed and left Sam to his unhappy brooding.

**

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**

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**A/N**:

1: Eyes are indeed subject to the laws of gravity, when the muscles that hold them in position go lax. Failure to account for this – whether for dramatic effect or out of sheer ignorance – is quite possibly the one medical inaccuracy that comes up most frequently and bothers me most.

_Regarding the lack of a semi-truck creaming them_: I talked over this with VT a while ago, and we decided two things. First, with John dead, if the truck crashed, it would ultimately result in Dean also dead. This would then result in a story about Sam falling to pieces, and while I do have a very clear idea of where that story would go and how it would influence, say, the YED's plans and so forth, there are many other stories out there already that deal with one or other of the boys trying (and failing) to properly soldier on without the other. Hell, the show itself goes into this, too. Moreover, I wasn't so sure I want to write quite that dark of a story at this time. Second, it seemed to us that the truck crash's primary purpose was to take a swipe at getting the Colt. Its secondary purpose was to further render the Winchesters out of commission. The secondary purpose is well enough achieved by killing off John and hospitalizing Dean. The primary purpose, meanwhile, is moot, because the Colt is lacking in bullets and is currently back at the cabin. (What happens to it, you will find out in the next chapter.) Now, with that reasoning, perhaps you can see why there was no need to have a demon possess a truck driver and – in a fit of irony – smash into them whilest Bad Moon Rising is playing on the radio.

Also, from the lack of _extra_ injuries given to Dean from being tossed about in a car wreck, I think you can gather that he will remain alive. Just… out of commission for a while. ;)

So… I'm sure that answers a few questions, though if you have any more, please feel free to ask. :)

I know exactly where I'm going in chapter 3 – I just have to be in the proper mood to sit down and write it when I have time. I just haven't and won't have the time for it for a while; moving back to school is full of business.

Any and all feedback is most appreciated!

Thanks for reading!

- Snarky


	3. Chapter 3

**A Moment Too Late**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural, its characters, its ideas or its situations, obviously.

**A/N:** Good lord, but life sure gets busy, eh? Sorry for the wait. Also… my b key is busted, so to use this letter, I've copy pasted it wherever it's needed. That said, I may have inadvertently left out a few b's or neglected to properly capitalize, so if you notice that, my apologies!

ALSO… a _huge_ thank you to my roommate Victorian Taxi for her assistance, both in idea- bouncing and reading/critiquing various drafts of this chapter. She's awesome!

* * *

Chapter 3

When Bobby reached the hospital, visitation hours had just started, but he figured Sam likely had never left the night before, so without hesitation he approached the front desk, where a bored-looking secretary clicked away at her keyboard, periodically snapping her gum.

"I'm looking for my nephews – one of them's a patient, other's probably visiting."

She glanced up at him, droning, "Name? _snap_."

"McGillicutty. Dean McGillicutty." 1

With a nod (and another _snap_), she entered something on her computer; a few seconds passed before she spoke, again, reaching over with thickly painted nails to point down the hallway to the elevators. "346. _snap _Take an elevator up. _snap _Left out of the elevator lounge." 2

"Thank you."

"Mm. _snap._"

She didn't bother to look at Bobby as he thus made his way off to find room 346. Upon locating it, he lingered in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. Dean, as expected, lay upon his hospital bed, still unconscious and hooked up to both IVs and oxygen, but he didn't seem to be on actual ventilation nor on particularly critical watch, so Bobby took that as a good sign. Sam, meanwhile, looked as ragged and upset as he'd sounded on the phone the day before, albeit with extra sleep deprivation thrown in. The taller man sat, elbows on knees, staring at his brother and the monitors with red-rimmed eyes, waiting and trying not to think. Glancing in the trash can by the door, Bobby saw a collection of crunched up coffee cups and figured caffeine was probably the only thing keeping Sam awake. The older hunter suppressed a sigh and properly entered the room.

"You look like hell."

Starting, Sam half whirled to his feet at the voice; however, upon recognizing Bobby, he relaxed, shifting, as if trying to cover his nervousness. Save for the brief moment of ascertaining identity, though, Sam did not meet Bobby's eyes, shame and guilt all too clearly written across his expression. "H-hey, Bobby…"

The older man came to a halt at the foot of Dean's bed. "How's he doin'?"

Sam licked his lips, turning to his brother's monitors. "Dean's… the doctors said that Dean should be ok. He needs to take it easy, give his lungs and such time to heal, but he should wake up soon."

Bobby nodded, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. The younger man flinched away at first, but when Bobby kept his grip firm, Sam seemed to relax and even lean into it a little. Silence followed for a long while, broken only by the steady beeping of Dean's monitors. Comforted as he was by Bobby's presence and exhausted from two days of almost no sleep, Sam began to nod off; however, his attention was soon caught by a soft noise from the figure on the bed. Immediately, he snapped to full wakefulness, all his focus on Dean. Bobby, too, switched gears almost immediately, looking anxiously towards the older of the two brothers.

Dean, meanwhile, stirred and at last surfaced into consciousness. Blearily, he blinked up at the ceiling several times before looking around, dazed and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings and an altogether fuzzy sense of being. Nevertheless, he recognized Sam and so ultimately fixed his attention on his brother.

"Sam?" He grimaced at how hoarse and weak his voice sounded, but there wasn't much he could do about that, yet.

"Dean! You're awake," breathed Sam, momentarily relieved. "H-how are you feeling?"

"Dunno… I feel kinda… floaty? Can I have somethin' to drink?"

"Y-yeah. Of course. Just a sec…" Sam rose and turned to fetch a cup of water, but Bobby had already gotten one from the sink and now handed it to Sam. "Ah, thanks Bobby."

"Bobby's here? Oh… hey, Bobby." Dean lifted one of his hands in a weak wave before (with Sam's assistance and some wincing) he sat up and took the proffered cup.

"Good t'see you awake, Dean," said Bobby.

"Haa…" He sipped at the water. "I think I'd rather be asleep, again. Seriously, whatever the hell I'm on… floaty. Speaking of… uh… why'm I in a hospital, anyway?"

Sam froze. "You… don't remember?"

"Obviously not." Another sip. "So… what happened? An' why aren't you here, too? I mean… you _are_ here, but I mean in a bed and stuff… You look like crap."

Sam hesitated, wondering how far back Dean's lack of remembrance extended and how much he ought to tell his brother at this point. He didn't really want to lie to Dean, and yet wasn't it better to keep things as stress-free for Dean while he was recovering? "Uh… you—"

"You got yer ass kicked by a demon," interjected Bobby, making the decision for Sam, who nodded when Dean looked to him for confirmation.

"He tried to pull your lungs out your chest, I think," explained Sam, softly. "You've been out for a bit over a day."

"Well… that certainly explains why breathing kinda hurts," Dean said, after a few moments of thought; he then attempted to give Sam a sharp look, though he only succeeded in looking vaguely stern, as he was having much difficulty in focusing. "Bet you haven't slept. Don't worry 'bout me. Go sleep." Seeing Sam's frown, Dean then looked past him to Bobby. "Make him sleep."

Bobby nodded. "Mm."

Sam, on the other hand, just shook his head. "I'm fine – you're the one who needs to rest, Dean."

"Whatever, Samantha."

And at that, Sam rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, Dean found himself growing steadily more 'floaty,' and though he tried to stay awake, he was asleep again before he knew it. Sam extricated the empty water cup from his brother's hand and eased him back into a supine position before sighing and sitting back in his chair again.

"Do… do you think he'll remember later?" he asked Bobby, once he was certain Dean was fully asleep.

Bobby shrugged. "He might. Or you might have to tell him yerself."

Nodding, Sam took a deep breath and swallowed, looking down at the floor, wondering whether it would be worse for Dean to remember on his own or to have to tell his older brother what he had done.

"He's right, though," said Bobby, breaking into Sam's thoughts. "You need sleep and a good meal. So, c'mon."

"No." Sam shook his head. "I can't leave Dean."

"Don't be stupid. Yer getting food an' rest, even if I have t'drag you outta here," declared Bobby, rolling his eyes.

"Bobby..."

"I'm serious. C'mon, kid. It's near enough lunch time, anyway."

Sighing, Sam at last assented. "All right. Lunch." He rose and followed Bobby to the door, though he paused to look back at Dean before exiting. "Are we going to the cafeteria here?"

"Tch. No," scoffed Bobby. "For all I know, the meat's leftovers from the morgue. I ain't eatin' that." 3

"Heh." Sam mustered a brief, half-smile at that. "Fair enough."

And so, a walk and a short drive later found them at a nearby diner, sitting in a booth and peering at sticky, laminated menus. They'd only been sitting a minute, though, when the waitress – a leggy, young blonde who reminded Sam painfully of Jessica – bounced over. After the initial glance, Sam kept his eyes directed steadily at the table.

"What can I getcha to drink?" she chirped, smiling brightly.

Sam opened his mouth, but Bobby beat him to the punch. "I'll take coffee," the older man said. "And he'll take water."

"Ok – I'll be right back with those, then!"

Sam frowned up at Bobby, who returned it with a level stare. "You need sleep, and you ain't gonna get it if you keep yourself buzzed on caffeine."

Looking away, Sam began to fiddle with the edge of the paper placemat beneath his menu. "I don't wanna sleep," he murmured, immediately feeling slightly childish.

Bobby opened his mouth to say something, but he never got it out, for the waitress chose that moment to return. Setting a glass of ice water in front of Sam and a steaming cup of coffee in front of Bobby, she beamed at them and pulled out a small pad of paper.

"You guys ready to order?"

"Yeah," said Bobby, slowly looking away from Sam. "I'll take the burger."

"Fries ok?" At Bobby's nod, the waitress continued, "How would you like that cooked?"

"Medium."

"Ok, and what about you?"

Sam, caught a little off guard, hurriedly skimmed the page of the menu before him. "Uh, I'll take the… uh… Caesar salad." 4

"You got it!" The waitress smiled at them again, took their menus and disappeared off to the kitchen, leaving Sam and Bobby once again alone.

Once again, Sam began to fiddle with the placemat, as if by constantly moving and twitching he could somehow avoid dealing with things he knew he should confront.

"It don't matter how much you don't want to sleep. It ain't healthy," declared Bobby, sipping at his coffee. "I care 'bout you, boy, and I ain't gonna stand by and watch you kill yerself by not taking care."

If anything, though, this pronouncement only seemed to make Sam fidget more. "How… how can you…? I was the one who – I mean, you – you know what… what I… "

"What's done is done, Sam and there ain't no goin' back. But that don't mean you can just stop."

Sam stilled, glancing up in surprise, for that had hardly been what he'd expected Bobby to say. The older man, meanwhile, simply took another sip of his coffee, while Sam searched his eyes for the condemnation he had anticipated and certainly felt he deserved. It wasn't there, though. In its place was a look of sad understanding, instead. And that look held Sam for several long seconds before he gazed down again, put a little more at ease.

"I'm not going to stop," he said at length. "I just… I'd rather stay by Dean… in case he wakes up again." It wasn't the complete truth as to why he didn't want to sleep, and Sam was aware that he was avoiding what Bobby was really talking about, but he hoped the man would let it go for now.

And to his gratitude, Bobby did just that, nodding once after a long pause. "Tell you what. I gotta a few things I need to look into anyway, so I'll take you back to the hospital 'till I'm done. Then, you come back with me. Sleep or not, but you're spending the night on the spare bed." When Sam hesitated, looking less than satisfied, Bobby went on, "The only other option involves me knocking you out."

Sam blinked and then sighed, nodding. "All right."

He then turned to his water, taking a sip and tracing patterns through the condensation on the glass, and the remainder of the time passed in silence, until the waitress brought them their meals. Sam merely picked at his salad, not actually eating any until Bobby reminded him, "I can still knock you out." Only then did Sam actually begin to eat, though he still didn't eat much. But then again, Bobby didn't seem to have all that much of an appetite, either. When the waitress brought them their check, Sam started to fish in his pocket for his wallet, but he stopped when he caught sight of the stern frown on Bobby's face, and he let the older man pay for it before they left and returned to the hospital.

Bobby watched Sam settled back into the chair beside Dean's bed. "Be back in a few hours. If you need anything before then, gimme a call.

Sam nodded. "Thanks Bobby."

And with that, the older hunter departed.

* * *

**A/N**:

**1**: This is the surname John uses in In My Time of Dying, when he gives the insurance. I like the name, so I'm using it here. Coincidentally, Elroy McGillicuty is also the example name my 8th grade civics teacher used to always use when he needed an example citizen/senator/whatever.

**2**: This number certainly doesn't add up to 13. -shifty eyes- oh no. -cough-

**3**: This was apparently a running joke at the hospital where my mom used to work, although they blamed the sketchy meat on the _entire_ pathology department – not just the morgue.

**4**: Sam actually doesn't eat. He subsists on air – like an air fern, he filters nutrients from the atmosphere via his fluffy hair. The reason he drinks demon blood later on is that he slicks back his hair and so it no longer provides a reliable stream of sustenance; he must therefore find an alternate source, and since demons are so abundant, why not?

General notes: Bobby is harder to write than he seems. x.x; I tried to get his voice as close to IC as possible. I hope I succeeded, but if I didn't I hope you'll forgive me and also point out ways it can be improved. Please – any and all advice can be helpful, and though I don't always follow advice given to me, I do take it under consideration.

Also, I did a little research, and the most common visiting hours for hospitals I found began at either 10 or 11 am and ended at a variety of times in the evening, usually 8, 8:30 or 9pm. Why do I bring this up? Well, first of all to point out that forty-five minutes to an hour or so after Bobby arrived is a perfectly reasonable time to go to lunch, and second, because I find it interesting. :) muahaha. Trivial knowledge FTW~!

ANYWAY… I don't know when I'll get the next chapter done – all depends on inspiration and how much homework I have and so forth. It won't be for at least a week or two, though – tests, projects, busy weekends, etc. I'll try to get up it up quicker than a month, but we'll see.

Please leave a review telling me your thoughts, good or bad!

Thank you muchly~!

- Snarky


	4. Chapter 4

**A Moment Too Late**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural, its characters, its ideas or its situations, obviously.

**A/N:** This chapter has a little bit of cussing in it. But I hope you enjoy! :)

Yet again, a huge thank you to the _ever-fantastic_ Victorian Taxi for all her help!

* * *

Chapter 4

For Dean, returning to consciousness felt like clawing his way through a mound of fluffy sheep. It was warm and dark and fuzzy, but getting out was thick and slow, and there was a constant pressure trying to keep him down. Plus there were occasional stabs of pain, like a sheep was kicking him in the chest. As he drew closer to full consciousness, though, he found himself wondering what the flipping hell was he on to come up with such a bizarre metaphor… simile… thing. And for that matter, why was he even trying to figure out … whatever the hell those things were called? That was Sam's territory, knowing stupid, pointless academic stuff. The important thing was getting away from the sheep… and their similetaphorthing.

Which – eventually – he managed to do, rousing himself enough to open his eyes and blink blearily at a grey tile ceiling. He squinted, trying to bring the world into focus and grimaced, as he looked to either side, less than thrilled to see the monitors, IV stand and other such paraphernalia. Something tugged at his memory about why he was here – something about lungs and—

He broke off his train of thought as he heard a soft (familiar) moan and felt a shift at the end of his bed. Gritting his teeth against the soreness of his chest and grunting at the absurd amount of effort it seemed to take, Dean pushed himself up, propping his weight on his elbows so that he could get a better view. As expected (because – honestly – who else would be visiting him long enough to fall asleep?), Sam – folded into one of the hellishly uncomfortable hospital chairs1 – was slumped over the end of Dean's bed, using his arms as a pillow, though it didn't seem to do much good in making Sam comfortable, if his distraught expression were anything to go by.

Dean recognized that Sam was having yet another of his nightmares and started to sigh but stopped as inhaling too deeply wasn't too comfortable at the moment; instead, he settled for shaking his head. Watching Sam, he wondered whether or not to wake his little brother. On the one hand, he did want to know what had happened as soon as possible, and he knew Sam would appreciate having the nightmare cut short; on the other hand, given Sam's tendency to avoid sleeping as much as possible, when he was having such dreams, it was probably good for him to keep on resting.

And yet… who could pass up the opportunity to kick his brother off the end of a bed? Oh the dilemmas of brotherhood!

Dean was just making up his mind to awaken Sam in a less than gentle fashion, when Sam shifted, again, and cried out – this time audibly. "Dad, _please_ don't – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Frowning, Dean wondered if Sam was dreaming about whatever had happened – if it were really something that bad – but when Sam murmured something about their mother and Jessica, Dean wasn't so sure.

The only concrete thing Dean knew about the date was that it was sometime in November (unless, of course, he'd been out of it for a lot longer than he thought), so it seemed more likely Sam's current dream was entirely seasonal. Abruptly, though, Sam broke Dean out of his musings by snapping awake, jerking back in his seat and staring straight ahead with a heartbroken, terrified and utterly guilty sort of expression. The younger man was breathing hard, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn Sam was trembling.

Dean figured he should be a good big brother and say something comforting and possibly profound; instead, he said, "Good morning, sunshine!"

Jumping in his seat, Sam looked at Dean for a long, wide-eyed moment before relaxing and forcing a smile. "Ah, Dean – you're awake, again!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Dean's voice cracked a bit, and he coughed, grimacing.

"And more with it, too." Sam rolled his eyes, but his smile turned a little more genuine. "How're you feeling?" he asked, rising and going to the sink to fetch a cup of water. "You look better than you did this morning."

"Like someone tried to claw open my chest." He paused to take the water and sip at it. "Other than that, though? Just peachy." Dean flashed his brother a quick grin. "So, how long I been here, anyway?"

"Uh… about two days."

Two days. Well, that wasn't so bad, Dean supposed, given that he'd been asleep for most of it, but he sure hoped he wouldn't be in here much longer. Hospitals had never sat well with him, after all – too sterile and boring, even when there were hot nurses to keep him distracted. Speaking of…

"Any hot nurses swooning over my gorgeous body?" Dean asked, finishing his water.

Again, Sam's lips twitched in some semblance of a smile. "No, no swooning. And it's mostly grumpy middle-aged ladies, anyway."

Dean made a face. "Of course. Well, whatever. So… how'd I wind up in here, again? I know someone said… something. But it's, um… fuzzy."

"A demon tried to rip out your lungs." Sam figured it wise to borrow Bobby's explanation, but he looked down, now, at the floor tiles.

"Huh." Dean contemplated this, once again trying to remember. Something about eyes stirred in his memory. "Which demon was it? I mean… was it the Yellow-Eyed Sonuvabitch or…?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice came out in a choked whisper. He cleared his throat, nodding. "It was."

Frowning, Dean wondered what exactly had happened – Sam's tone and demeanor made it clear that it had been nothing good. "How's Dad? Where is he, anyway?"

Sam tensed, but he forced himself to look up. "Dean… what's the last thing you remember before waking up here?"

"Um… let's see… after we caught that Meg hellbitch, we went and got dad back, and we were on our way to Bobby's, but we stopped for the night at an old cabin Dad knew about, annnnnd… uh, that's about it. I'm guessing demons attacked while we were there…?"

Sam didn't answer for a while, instead simply nodding once, looking anywhere but at Dean.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, eventually. "What happened?"

Silence.

"Is…" Dean hesitated, as his mind unwillingly settled on a likely reason for Sam's nervousness and sheer unwillingness to say anything. "Sam, is…" His mouth went dry. "Is Dad… is he…?"

Although Dean couldn't bring himself to voice the dread thought, Sam already knew the question. He closed his eyes and nodded once more – he couldn't bring himself to voice it, either. Dean, meanwhile, stared at him in horror; he almost forgot to breathe, and swallowing hard, he tried to process this news.

"How…?" he whispered.

Still, Sam made no reply, fidgeting more than ever.

"_Sam_… what happened? Tell me."

"Dean, I…" 2

He broke off, silent again as he struggled between the need for Dean to know and the desire to avoid speaking or even thinking about… it –Sam struggled, too, to formulate a way to deliver the news that wouldn't result in Dean hating him forever. He closed his eyes.

"Oh god, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean for… I'm so sorry… I shouldn't've, but he… and…I…"

"Woah, woah – Sam. Slow down. Start with the cabin… what happened then? Were we followed? What?"

Sam shook his head, taking a deep breath. "N-no… we weren't – we weren't followed. It was… Dad… he – he was possessed."

Dean's eyes widened. "Wait, what? But didn't we holy water him? I mean…"

"Y-yellow Eyes… little holy water doesn't – doesn't do much against him." At long last, Sam risked a glance up at Dean, who was staring at him in disbelief and horror, which quickly turned to anger.

"Goddamned son of a _bitch_!" Balling a fist, Dean pounded on the mattress beside him, causing his brother to flinch, and he found himself dreading whatever Sam had to say next, a horrible picture already forming in his mind.

"You… you noticed first," Sam continued – eyes once more anywhere but Dean. "Noticed that Dad wasn't quite right – you realized he was possessed. But… before we could do anything, he… he pinned us against the walls. … talked… then he – he started t-torturing you. God, he…" Sam trailed off, swallowing and attempting to repress a shudder at the memory. "Dad… he broke through somehow – for a second or two, managed to regain control, so I was free for… for a moment, and I grabbed the… the Colt… sh-shot him in the leg… It … didn't kill the demon, but it broke the last hold he had over you… and Dad regained control… and he – he… oh god, he told me to – to – to sh-shoot him."

Dean briefly interrupted him with a "What?! You didn't…!" but Sam kept going. Now that he had started, he found that he couldn't stop; for all that each word took everything he had to get out, he just couldn't stop.

"Told me to shoot him in the heart." Sam swallowed once more and closed his eyes. "I – I pointed th-the gun at him, and you told me – you told me not to do it, and… I wasn't – I didn't want to, but… but then… the demon started to – to escape, and Dad screamed, and I… god, I'm – I didn't mean, but… I… he… I sh-shot… the demon escaped, and I still… I … sh-shot him."

For several heartbeats, Dean just stared at his brother in shock. As the silence drew on, he attempted to formulate a coherent thought – his mouth opened and closed, as he tried to articulate something – _anything_. But nothing came out, and all he could do was gape. However, as the truth of what had happened sunk in, emotions coursed through Dean, as if breaking through a dam. A sense of betrayal washed over him, and so, too, came a wrenching sense of loss and confusion, horror and anger – outrage at Sam, at the demon – hell, even at their father for dying and even more so for having asked such a thing of his son.

It was all too much – too much all at once, and Dean just couldn't deal with it all, and having Sam right _there _made it worse. A visible, audible, palpable sign of what had happened – the messenger and doom bringer all in one. And Dean had a sudden strong desire to be alone, now.

"Leave," he whispered. "I… I can't…"

"… Dean…?" Sam murmured, warily.

"_Go, _Sam. Now. Just… leave."

And Sam did, scurrying to the door, though he paused beside it and looked back to see and hear Dean again pounding his fist into the mattress, snarling, "God damn it – god fucking _damn it_."

**

* * *

A/N**

1. Not all hospital chairs are hellishly uncomfortable, mind you, (in fact, many of them are quite comfortable, for waiting around in) but I've sat in a few that are and figured I might as well pretend this hospital was one of those with hellishly uncomfortable chairs. On the whole, though, they're much more comfortable than airport terminal chairs, at least.

2. Originally, when I set out to write this part, I was dead tired and rather stressed out; therefore, I was in a deranged state of mind and so wrote, "Cthulu ate our Dad, OK?! God, I can never look at calamari the same way again…" Why am I telling you this? Um… mostly because my roommate insisted that I include this footnote. :) "Cthulu ate my/the ____!" has consequently become something of an inside joke between the two of us. But on this note, I may be writing a oneshot dealing with the Winchesters encountering Cthulu… anyone interested in reading it, or should I spend more of my time on this instead? xD

My apologies for taking a while, as usual – and also for this being slightly re-cappy. Yes, that's a word.

Anyway, I would appreciate any and all comments or questions! Thank you so much!

- Snarky

PS: Cthulu ate the dingo that ate my baby.


End file.
